


Thaw (My Heart In Spring)

by nana_clarke_x_yuri_plisetsky



Series: L.O.V.E. Series [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character x OC relationship, F/M, Ice Skating, Original Character(s), Probably Some Angst and Sadness Later On, Slow Burn, There Will Also Be Some LGBT OCs introduced
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-09-26 19:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9917609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nana_clarke_x_yuri_plisetsky/pseuds/nana_clarke_x_yuri_plisetsky
Summary: "Let love simply bloom . . . and it is unstoppable." - Pope Francis





	1. London!!! For the First Time!

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my first work in AO3. This is going to be a Yuri/OC story so if OCs are not your cup of tea, then this may not be the story for you, so yeah.

London was strange, he supposed. A different strange than Moscow.

“Strange” in that, somehow, it managed to be both modern and archaic, blending together the two elements well, as well the sunset sky would fuse tangerine and gold.

As much as he would like to venture and see more of all the places his career permitted him to travel to, Yuri didn’t really have that much time on his hands.

All of it went to perfecting his skills.

But, there was nothing wrong about it. At least for him. If it meant snagging the top spot for himself, then he was willing to sacrifice all of his precious time.

“Hmm, so the Final is going to be held here—for the first time,” he muttered to himself, his mint green eyes busy with the headline his phone was flashing: ****GPF in London For The Very First Time!****

Then it disappeared, replaced by a caller screen: Otabek was calling him.

He tapped the answer button. “What is it?”

_Oi, Yuri. Where are you now?_

“I’m here already, in London. Why?”

There was coughing on the other end, then: _I mean, where are you exactly, in London?_

At Otabek’s inquiry, he fell silent and his mind went blank, as if stupefied. Now that he thought long and hard about it . . . he had been blindly walking inside the city with little attention to his location. _Stupid._

He quickly glanced around him, seeking for a good indicator as to where he was—

And he stopped, his gaze falling onto the London Eye.

Then he replied, “I am here, near the London Eye. And I mean _very near._ Now, why?”

 _. . . Stay there. My sister will be there to pick you up,_ his rich voice buzzed through his phone. _I can’t go there myself right now._ _Something came up._  And before Yuri could say more, the call had been dropped.

He expelled a sharp sigh, his thin brows knitting in confusion. _His sister?_  His best friend had a sister?

He left the thought at that; it wasn’t any of his business, anyway.

To pass time, he decided to take a few shots of the vicinity, and the famous attraction itself. Then he posted it on his Instagram, tagging it _#london, #london eye,_ and _#gpf._ Seconds later, likes were pouring in, followed suit by a few comments:

 

_****OMG ur in london!!!** ** _

_****you should see the thames river!** ** _

_****Man you’re so lucky** ** _

 

He put the gadget away, disinterested. He raised his arms above him and stretched, all the while yawning. _This is going to be a long wait._

“Hey!” Was it just him, or was somebody calling him? He tuned his ears and waited.

There it was again—”Hey! Yuri!” And he heard his name, too.

Yuri directed his eyes forward, eyes shifting spot to spot, searching wherever the cries could have come from, until it settled on a figure who seemed to be . . . running towards him? But who—

“Oh, crap, a fan!” His face morphed into an expression of utter horror. Memories of his fangirls, Yuri’s Angels—or so they were called—came flooding back. So did all of the endless pursuits, squealing and screaming, hiding behind dumpsters . . .

Taking hold of his luggage’s handle, his feet came to life and carried him in a adrenaline-packed dash, away from whom he assumed to be his pursuer.

He heard the same cry again. “Hey! Yuri!” The Russian sprinted even faster.

Yuri raced past tourists and locals alike, bumping into some in the process—and receiving curses in return. Those that were fortunate, however, were swift enough to evade the escaping kid.

Yuri dared a glance behind him. His pursuer was nowhere to be found among the crowd.

He came to an abrupt halt, and nearly stumbled from the sudden loss of momentum. Perspiration dripped down his head, from his sweaty hair to his scarlet cheeks. _Looks like I lost them._

He released the breath he didn’t know he had been holding, effectively steadying his racing heart.

Just as he was about to move again, tight hands wrapped around his hand with vise-like grip, startling him greatly and triggering his defensive reflex. His arm jerked out, striking whoever was holding him captive.

“Ow!” he heard the captor cry, followed suit by an audible thud. Yuri took the chance to fully catch a glimpse of the person.

It was a girl.

The revelation rendered him unable to move and breathe properly.

His grandfather had always told him to never strike a girl, unless his intent was to defend himself. Yet here he was, with a girl writhing at his feet in pain, courtesy of him.

Without thinking he lowered himself to her level and assisted her in picking up all of what had fallen. A sepia-colored handbag and a pair of black, thick-rimmed spectacles, both lying ungracefully on the gray pavement. His disposition uncharacteristically sheepish, he asked her, “Are—are you . . . alright?”

The girl below didn’t answer him immediately. Her hands were busily soothing her nose, where he assumed she had taken the worst of his hit. He waited, a mixture of guilt and and shame welling up in his stomach. Seconds later, she gingerly rose to her feet and let her hands drop to her sides, revealing her still-intact face. He emitted a relieved noise under his breath, thankful that he hadn’t injured someone.

“Bloody hell, you have a strong hit,” he heard her speak soon after. He stayed silent, not knowing what to make of her statement. Despite his forced silence, his rigid lack of motion and the kicked puppy look on his face made his discomfort glaringly obvious.

“Hey.” She flashed him an assuring smile. “I’m fine—see?” She motioned for him to look at her again.

He adamantly refused, still shamefaced. And remembering that his hands were still holding her bag and her glasses, he promptly handed them to her. He grabbed the bags he had been neglecting that whole time and made a motion to leave, abandoning the stranger who stared after him with a dropped jaw.

“H-hey!” she hollered after him, not caring if she caught attention. “Hey, Yuri!”

Upon hearing his name did Yuri cease moving, with a gasp escaping his throat. Seeing the effect it had given, the girl continued. “You’re supposed to come with me, you know. I’m Otabek’s sister, the one who’s supposed to pick you up!”

He twisted around to face her once more, surprise written all over his features. He came closer to her, his pace swift, but quickening by the second.

“You—you’re her?” was all the came out of his mouth upon reaching her.

She nodded. “Aye,” she responded, then gave him a look a wondering look. “He didn’t show you what I look like?”

“No.”

The girl scratched her head and sighed sharply. “That’s what I thought. He’s always been quite forgetful.” She gave him an apologetic look. “Anyways, let’s go. We’re nearing noon, you know.” She gently brushed past him, intent to lead him the way, but stopped abruptly as if she had forgotten something. “Oh, cripes!”

Yuri stopped as well. He raised a fine blond brow. “What?”

The stranger faced him, skin scarlet with embarrassment. “How silly of me, I forgot to introduce myself!” she said, before extending a hand out to him. “My name is Vitanya Clarke, but you can call me ‘Nana.’ I do figure skating, too.”


	2. Make Yourself At Home?

_Vitanya Clarke, huh?_ He had been sneaking careful glances at her for the past few minutes, scrutinizing her up and down now that he was able to get a closer look at her appearance. He found her wavy hair peculiar—cream white at the top, vibrant cerulean at the bottom, and messily styled into childish-looking pigtails. Sitting atop her nose was her spectacles, black and thick-rimmed with large lenses. Her outfit consisted of a salmon cashmere sweater, a black and white tartan skirt, and a pair of white cotton tights with strange markings all over it. Overall, her look screamed both _geeky_ and _nerd._

However, she looked _nothing_  like what he would expect a sibling of Otabek would look like.

Nana had a much lighter, pinkish complexion—an obvious Caucasian trait—possessed neither his fawn-colored irises, nor his raven black hair. Her appearance came to be a stark contrast to his.

Dissipating the thought, his seafoam eyes wandered over to the window displaying the outside world. Seconds ticked by. Rain started pouring from the hovering gray sky of England, pelting the glass with tiny, crystal droplets. He leaned back in his seat . . . sinking down, bit by bit, yawning . . . his eyes blurry and drowsy. The humming of the car did not help matters, either.

Moments later, he was out like a light.

* * *

 

He came to a darkened room.

He pulled the covers over him and comfortably rolled to his side, eyes groggy yet with sleep.

His eyes widened, snapping from his stupor. _Covers?_

The Russian shot up, from the bed _he didn’t even know he had been sleeping in the whole time. In an unfamiliar room._ Where was he?

He peered into the dimness of the room, trying to get his bearings. The last thing he could recall was . . . tracing the raindrops, inside Nana’s car. And then—nothing. Blank.

 _Growl,_  his stomach rumbled, signifying its empty state.

Driven by his famished state, he set a foot on the floor—which, he just realized, was devoid of his footwear—then another. He was up and headed for the door, not even bothering to look for his shoes.

* * *

 

The second he set foot outside the room, light spilled into his eyesight, prompting him to squint and cover his eyes.. As soon as he was able to recover, his vision was welcomed by a monotonous series of black, white, brown, and gray: from the walls, from the furnishings, from the ceiling. Wafting into his nose was the mild, sweet aroma of jasmine.

Walking down the hall of rooms, he found a set of twisted stairs, inviting him to descend.

* * *

 

Downstairs was a spacious parlor.

She was lounging on the recliner, within the confines of the parlor of her residence, a novel seated on her blanketed lap and headphones on her head. It was one of her after-lunch routines: reading the books of her favorite novel series  _Red Queen,_ all written by Victoria Aveyard. Every ounce of her focus was concentrated on the book, that she had failed to hear the descending sounds of footfalls.

The staircase led him to the same room. That was when he spotted her, a blonde head sticking out from behind the recliner’s rest. He decided to approach her for assistance.

The feel of somebody tapping her shoulder brought Nana back to reality. She lifted her head up, twisted her body around, and said, “Yes?”

The Russian’s question was short. “Where’s the kitchen?”

“It’s right there.” Peering behind him, the British girl pointed a finger at an entrance. His eyes followed its direction, and he was able to spot it as well. He quickly made a beeline for the room and mumbled _"Spasibo”_ under his breath.

Before she could return to her reading, her skin sensed vibration from the inside of her pajama pocket. Sighing at the fact that she’d been interrupted twice, she slammed her book down on the glass coffee table and pulled her phone out of her pocket.

Calling her was her beloved brother. She tapped the green button and listened.

 _Nana. Where are you now?_ came the baritone voice of the Kazakh.

Nana gave the kitchen entrance a quick glance. “I’m home now. Yuri’s with me,” she answered, leaning back on the rest. That was when her voice inflected into a much lower one, and her face became more . . . serious. Glancing around to make sure nobody was listening, she carefully murmured into her device, “Where are you? How’s Aunt Masha?”

The other line did not answer her instantly. From what she could make out of the noises from the other line, he seemed to be crying. Something he only did on the rarest occasions. Nana felt her peaceful, ecstatic mood drop.

The Brit was about to hang up and leave the uneasy conversation at that when Otabek cut in, in an uncharacteristically soft, yet somber voice. _She’s _. . .__ anam _is still unconscious. . . ._

Nana fell silent. An unbearable feeling settled in her chest, breaking the regular pattern of her breathing, and threatening to further break her composure, as well.

However, Otabek went on, determined to throw off the heavy sensation on his shoulders, the burden akin to carrying the weight of the world. _Nana . . . at this rate, I might not be able to join the competition._

“No!” That single word, so small yet so powerful, had escaped her lips before she could even stop herself. This time, it was Otabek that was silenced, rendered speechless by her expression.

Deciding to take it upstairs, she retreated to her room, feet harshly slamming on the polished, wooden slabs of the staircase. Completely unaware of the audience she had attracted: Yuri, who had been peeking from behind the kitchen wall, trying his best to eavesdrop. He could tell that the person she was talking to was none other than his best friend.

“What the hell . . . ,” he muttered to himself, while munching on a sandwich. “I wonder what those two could be talking about.”

* * *

 

By the time she had returned downstairs, it was already four-thirty; a full three hours had passed since the “conversation.” Yuri, on the other hand, was focused on the television before him. Sight-wise, anyway—most of his attention was partitioned to mainly his ears. From his peripheral vision, he could see her take a seat on one of the couches, an unreadable expression on her face. Both of them sat there, not a word spilling from their mouths.

It took five minutes before his company, at last, spoke up. She uttered his name, swaying his attention from the screen to her. She opened her mouth again, and out came a question, a vaguely rhetorical one.

“Do . . . do you know why brother wasn’t able . . . to pick you up?”

He faced her, suddenly interested.

Nana laid back, with her shoulders sagging and her face grim, and bluntly said, “Otabek’s mother is sick. And because of that . . .” She paused, seemingly finding it difficult to relay what she wanted to tell Yuri.

The Russian arched a brow. “And . . . ?” he prompted. He could see her eyes moisten and glimmer with different emotions: pain, sadness, even fear.

“He might not be able to join the Grand Prix.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a cliffhanger, I guess??? XDD I'm writing as much as I can before Monday hits, though.
> 
> A few translation notes:
> 
> Spasibo - "thank you" in Russian  
> Anam - "mom" in Kazakh


	3. A Friendly Challenge

The first thing Yuri saw was a twilight sky.

He had assumed himself to be the only one wide awake, in that time of the day, the wee hours of the morning.

No light, he observed, as he passed by a block of quaint-looking houses. That meant that everybody was still dead asleep—and that also meant no disturbances. Well, he certainly hoped so.

Well, his inference was proven inaccurate.

His left ear twitched upon hearing something within earshot: a crunching and crushing noise, the noise produced whenever shoes met concrete. There was only one explanation: Somebody else was awake—jogging right behind him.

He dared a backward glance.

Seafoam met indigo.

He couldn’t help but choke on his spit when his eyes fell on her. Hair fixed in a simple ponytail instead of her usual pigtails, eyes donned with contacts, and clothed in a exercise outfit, Nana was also dressed for workout. Upon making eye contact with him, she flashed him a gregarious smile.

“Oh, good morning, Yuri!” Nana trilled in her airy voice. She zoomed forward until they were side by side. “Stealthy, aren’t I?”

Yuri scoffed, letting the possibility of being chased by a rogue pursuer dissipate in his mind.

“What are you doing?” he asked, robotic and toneless.

He heard her huff once. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m exercising—like you.”

“. . . I meant why you are exercising with me.”

“Oh!” she gasped, then gave a quiet, sheepish laugh under her breath. “I thought it’d be good to jog with someone else, you know. Inspiration purposes.”

He cocked a brow at her last words. “’Inspiration purposes’?”

“Yeah. That’s . . . kind of . . . how I work,” she explained, pausing in between words to pant and gather air into her lungs. “Whenever I jog with someone else, it helps me to keep on going.” She gave him a side glance. “You’re a good inspiration,” she added with an appreciative twinkle in her eye.

He scowled upon feeling his face heat up at her statement. He glanced away.

They fell into silence, with their running shoes the only ones producing sounds.

In no time, sweat had begun to coat their body. With every passing second, their limbs burned from all the effort they were exerting on their bodies. Being athletes who had gone through the worst of the worst, the sensation was fairly easy to ignore.

That was when Nana gasped, rather audibly, catching Yuri’s attention. She looked as if she had been electric-shocked; her mouth was forming an O.

Despite his brain’s insistence about the pointlessness of asking, he did so anyway. “What is it?”

She slowed down to a stop, and so did he. She began talking at once. “I have a great idea, Yuri. A _very fun_ one.”

“And what is it?” He was admittedly—albeit slightly—curious.

Her smile only grew wider. “How about we have a race?”

Yuri had been ready to shoot down her idea, until it fully sank in his mind. He stopped and did a double take.

“A—race?”

“Yeah!” She raised her open hand. “You up for it?”

He craned his head, a tiny bit interested. “What’s the catch?”

She stared off into space for a moment, then: “The loser has to treat the winner with their favorite food.” Then she glanced at something faraway, several meters away from them, and explained, “The park there”—she pointed at a large evergreen tree in the distance—“will serve as the finish line.”

He stared at her hand, contemplating about her offer. A race? He certainly liked challenges, one that involved outdoing another and showing them who’s boss. Even better: The loser had to buy the winner their favorite food. A smirk stretched across his face.

“Deal,” he answered, and proceeded to clasp hands with her—a sign of friendly challenge and sportsmanship. His hand met hers.

That was when she felt a sudden sensation, a minuscule shiver, course through her fingers, through her arm, then to her stomach.

Unbeknownst to her, Yuri had felt it, too.

Albeit falling into a brief moment of stupefaction, they both thought nothing of it; they went into position. The British girl was the first to count.

“On three! One.”

“Two,” he followed, squinting his eyes at her.

“Three!”

And then they took off, as fast as a rushing wind.

They were evenly tied during the first few meters, until Yuri started to gain the upper hand. He let out a triumphant laugh.

“Ha! Try and beat me, Clarke!” he hollered confidently. With his body continuously pumping adrenaline, he felt as if his feet were merely feathers: light and airy. He felt as if he were _flying_.

Nana snorted at his smugness. She might have been lagging behind the boy, but the challenge was far from over, and she certainly had lots of tricks up her sleeve. She just needed the right timing. And the _right_ object.

For now, she had to settle with speeding up. She began to use the breathing techniques her coach had taught her, in hopes to alleviate her physiological state. Fortunately, it worked; bit by bit, she was catching up to him.

That was when she spotted a car, parked right outside. Her eyes widened. There was her chance!

She readied herself and began to count in her head. _One . . ._

Just a few more meters.

 _Two_ . . .

She was getting closer and closer.

_Three!_

Right that moment, she jumped, raised her hands, and did the most reckless thing she had ever done: She somersaulted over the car.

The next thing she knew she was soaring and flipping high up in the air, until her feet eventually found the ground. As soon as she regained her footing, she wasted no time and set off into a sprint. Behind her, she could hear Plisetsky’s shocked cry of “What the hell?!”

Now it was Nana’s turn to gloat. Craning her head to look at him, she shouted to him, “Gymnastics, Plisetsky! Try and beat that!!”

The stakes were high now. Both were desperate—Yuri even more so—to reach the finish line and acquire the chance to eat their favorite food, for free. Right after the little stunt the Brit had pulled, she was in a much better state than the Russian.

Or so she thought.

That was when she heard a loud _thump_ right beside her. She peered to her left.

Only for her eyes to fall on his smug face. Great disbelief crossed her features in an instant.

“Parkour, Clarke. Heard of that?” He snickered at her, in retort to her earlier remark.

She flashed her gritting teeth. “Bloody hell, I have!”

Their intense exchange was more than enough to make the tension rise and reach peak levels in the drop of a hat.

They were evenly matched now; each time one of them gained a bit of the higher ground the other would quickly compensate and catch up. At the rate they were going right now . . . there would be no clear victor.

Even after reaching the curb surrounding the park, they went on until they reached the evergreen tree itself. In a funny twist of fate, they both reached out and ended up touching the trunk . . . _at the same time_.

Having reached the designated finish line, Nana collapsed to her knees, expelling an exhausted sigh in the process. Her chest was rising and falling in a terrifyingly frantic pace.

Yuri was no better. His legs were throbbing with fatigue, his chest felt like it was about to explode from all the effort it had exerted. With the effects of the adrenaline beginning to wear out, he was about to experience the harrowing aftereffects. He cursed under his breath.

In spite of their unpleasant states, Nana still had the heart to laugh.

It first came out as a relieved giggle, until it grew in volume and intensity and became full-blown laughter. Was she going insane? Yes. Insane with glee. It was the kind of insane one would experience right after doing something inherently dangerous and stupid.

And frankly, she found it quite exhilarating.

Surprisingly, Yuri joined in, too, with his youthful, mirth-filled guffaw. Together, they laughed at their ridiculous predicament, as if drunk and high.

**CHAPTER OMAKE:**

An eager pair of teeth happily bit into a freshly-baked strawberry and cream scone.

“That challenge was worth it, don’t you think so?” its owner spoke, shamelessly downing a cup of tea in an unsophisticated manner.

The response to her question was a full-mouth grunt.

Nana chuckled at how silly Yuri looked. The latter was sitting in front of her, feasting on a plateful of _pirozhki_.

Swallowing the chewed food, Yuri cleared his throat, slipping out a single remark. “We both got what we wanted.”

“Even though we both cheated, and it wasn’t fair and square?” she added cheekily, shooting him a meaningful look. The blond boy snorted at her reference.

“Yeah, yeah. Shut it, Flippy.”

“No, you shut up, Mister Parkour Ninja.”

Who knew a silly friendly challenge could jump-start a friendship?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So sorry for the late update, mates! I had a hard time thinking of the plot for this chapter (TT_TT). You don't know how relieved I was when I actually finished it (/bricked). Hope you enjoyed this silly chapter!


	4. A Flashback and A Concussion

She glided across the glossy rink, with her indigo eyes cast downward and gazing at the ice’s surface. Pumping straight from her earphones was “The Dance of The Sugar Plum Fairy,” from one of Tchaikovsky’s classic masterpieces, _The Nutcracker_.

She pursed her lips, draining her mind of thoughts as she listened to the first string of tinkles of the symphony. The first part, she would need to begin slow and small, start with short, gracefully dainty steps and brief glides, to mirror a _bourrée_ , something she did a lot in her ballet classes.

“Mum, I thank you for this,” she whispered, eternally grateful as always had been. She was glad, certainly glad, that she had an extensive experience in the artistic dance, aside from gymnastics and aerial silk dancing.

She didn’t need a instructor, for she already had her mother by her side: A freckle-faced woman who never seemed to age, bearing the name of Hellen Clarke, a former ballerina at her prime—noted for her fluidity and grace and her undying dedication to the craft. Albeit not very world-renowned as the rest, her mother did make a small name for herself, and was a revered figure and teacher.

As she continued to slide across the surface, a memory began to seep its way into her consciousness, and her mind flashed eleven years back. Her surroundings started to swirl and dissipate, but the music in her ears remained.

She was no longer staring at ice, but at a slick wooden floor.

Taken aback by the unexpected change, she raised her head, only for her line of vision to catch sight of a figure.

A small, delicate figure sitting on the floor alone, inside what seemed to be a studio.

Nana gasped—a light, barely audible sound.

The squealing noise of the door entered her ears, catching her attention. In came a woman—a very young one, with the sweetest and most angelic of faces—with ebony hair done in a neat bun. She knelt beside the kid, tilting her head in the process to get a better look at the child’s face.

In a very cautious manner, Nana took one step closer, eyes squinting. The female kneeling beside her younger self looked familiar. _Really familiar_.

“Hey, Nana, what’s wrong?” the young woman murmured, perching a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Nana could see her younger self visibly sag in dejection.

A soft, yet wistful smile tugged at her lips. _My first days in ballet class. Tragic._ She listened some more.

The child was initially hesitant to share, but upon seeing the reassuring gaze the woman was giving her, she eventually cracked and mumbled her troubles.

“The other kids . . . ,” younger Nana wept in a small, shaky voice, “they . . . they told me that I looked stupid . . . w-w-when I tried to copy Mum. . . .” She rubbed her reddening eyes. "What if—what if I don't do well?! What if . . . I embarrass Mummy . . . ?"

Hearing her confession, the sweet lady shook her head, looking incredibly displeased, like a mother that just knew of her child’s shenanigans. She smothered young Nana in her embrace, whispering words of comfort in her wispy voice. And they stayed that way for a time.

The older Nana felt the edges of her eyes water. _All the pressure I had to go through to keep myself perfect in Mum's eyes . . ._

After seconds had passed, the woman took her thin arms in her hands and helped the young girl to her feet. She told the young girl solemnly, “Nana, don’t you ever listen to them, especially to Carmen—you know how she is. You hear me?”

The younger Nana nodded obediently. “Yes, Miss Peggy.”

"You are perfect just the way you are. Not only did Mummy teach you well, but you have talent. Such a talent you are lucky to have."

The older Nana craned her head, catching a perfect view of the woman’s eyes. Those almond-shaped, viridian eyes were looking at her younger self with such faith, with such admiration—it’s as if she were looking at the world’s most prized treasure.

With their hands connected, the girl and Miss Peggy made their way out the room. All seemed to be going well, until—

“Nana, watch out!”

What?

And before she knew it, she had been ungracefully knocked off of her feet. “Oof!”

As it turned out, she had been so consumed in her memory that she lost contact with the conscious world, and she ended up painfully crashing into the rink fence. She let out a cry once her head met the frozen-solid ice.

“Jesus Christ!” somebody had shouted. Nana lay there, wincing and hissing at the unpleasant sensations that were blooming in her head and her body. She was completely unaware of the other presence in the rink.

Completely unaware that somebody was skating over to her, genuinely worried at her well-being. The sound of blades scraping against the icy surface filled the room.

“Come on, I’ll help you up!” The voice had come again. The next thing she knew, she was being pulled up to her feet, by two strong arms that had, unknowingly, wrapped themselves around her forearms.

Unfortunately for Nana, she had yet to regain her balance. She stumbled a bit, still dazed from the collision, but the arms wrapped around hers steadied her. She shook her head, freeing herself from the weird, groggy spell.

The person holding her huffed in relief.

“What—what just happened . . . ?” was the only thing she could say. She closed her eyes, trying to recall prior events, yet all she conjured was a convoluted mess of images. She pressed her lips together in displeasure.

On the other hand, the person in front of her was just as equally displeased, no thanks to her lack of acknowledgment of his presence. Unable to contain himself, he flicked her on the forehead.

As expected, the Brit yelped and quickly smoothed a hand over the spot. She gave him an insulted glower.

“What was that for, you twat? Who gave you the right to flick my damn forehead like that?” she began hissing at once, like a grumpy elderly woman scolding mischievous tykes. “Only Anton can do that!”

The person rolled his eyes. “I am Anton, _pizdă,_ ” he snorted, slightly amused at her funny state. He careened his head, mock examining her own. “Hmm, looks like you knocked yourself harder than I tho—”

_WHACK!_

Now it was his turn to feel pain. Anton staggered back, having taken a stinging hand to the cheek. He looked at her, stunned.

“Now what was that for, Vee!” he whined, aghast at her sudden show of hostility. What had he done to her? Was he supposed to just leave her sprawled across the chilly rink—if that was what she was even angry about?

Childishly puffing out her cheeks, she—dramatically—whirled around and skated as far away from him as possible. “Don’t talk to me, Anton Vasiliev Ionescu!” she shrieked and made a quick beeline for the rink entrance, leaving him still pain-stricken.

His eyes broadened; he was at a loss for words. “What did I ever do to you?” He straightened up and glided after her at a rapid pace. “Vitanya Ellena Clarke, answer me this instant!”

“No!”

* * *

“Come on, that was eleven years ago! Get over it!”

No response.

Anton sighed. How had he forgotten that Nana could be so _annoyingly_ stubborn? He sprawled himself across a seat in the waiting area of the infirmary as if he owned it, earning strange looks from the other visitors. Nana elbowed him in the ribs, hard, effectively rousing him from his pathetic attempt to sleep.

“Hey! That was uncalled for!” he complained, rubbing his aching rib—he was certain a bruise was going to form there later.

“Your behavior is uncalled for,” the blonde retorted dryly, shooting him a disdainful look.

His shoulders sagged. “You need to stop it with the cold shoulder treatment, Nana. It’s not like I wanted to leave without even saying goodbye.” He flashed her the symbol of peace. “So can we just forgive and forget?”

The girl was about to open her mouth when her phone—seated on her lap—buzzed and pinged, notifying her of a new message. With a single tap, she began to read:

  * _hey bunny-face, got a minute to chat? yakov’s whining again (-__-)_



“‘Hey, bunny-face, got a minute to chat?’” read Anton, who had careened his head forward to look. “‘Yakov’s whining aga—’ow!”

“Who gave you the right to read my messages, Ionescu?” she huffed, right after she flicked him in the forehead as a payback to his earlier, similar action. “Mind your own business.”

Having used to her newly-formed aggression toward him, he laughed the mild pain off. “Ahahaha . . . got a secret you’re keeping there, I see,” the Romanian joked, disregarding her venomous statement prior.

“What secret?”

He shrugged, playing mock dense. “Oh, I don’t know,” chuckled the brunet. “The fact that you’re actually friends with ‘The Russian Punk.’” He gave her a coy smile. “Last time I checked, he cursed off anyone who came within a five-mile radius of him.”

She raised one sardonic brow. “So?” Nana didn’t get how her newly-forged friendship with Plisetsky was a secret. She just despised people who invaded _extremely private_ spaces.

“So,” he continued, “I am here wondering how you managed to befriend him”—he then gestured to her phone—“ _and_ get his phone number at the same time.”

“I don’t know. Ask God.”

There was short, awkward pause. Then: “You really need to get that head of yours checked.”

_SMACK!_

"You reallly need to stop abusing me, Vee."

* * *

“So, what did the Doc say?”

“Apparently I have a concussion,” Nana replied, not really looking at him. Her eyes were focused on the road before her.

Anton winced. “Ouch. That’s hella nasty.” He leaned back in his seat, caramel eyes drinking in the car’s environment. “So, did he tell you anything else?”

“. . . He told me to go home and rest for now. He doesn’t want me making it any worse.”

“I see.”

They fell into silence, minds too blank to strike up an actual discussion. The only sound that could be heard was the peaceful humming of the car. Nana wanted it to stay that way.

And he knew it.

Despite Anton’s desire to make up for all the eleven years he was missing from Nana’s life, to speak of the all the hardships he had gone through as a rising star in Romania . . . he kept quiet.

Maybe, if she would ever forgive him. Yeah, that was it.

His hand reached for his phone; seconds later he was tapping away, occasionally pausing to sneak glances at Nana. He was currently engaged in a conversation with his twin, Andrei.

  * _she’s mad at me drei ( T _ T ) real mad; she keeps on hitting me smh_



Not too long after, his phone was vibrating with notifications.

  * _xaxaxa!!_
  * _. . . r u okay tho?_
  * _when she hits u kno it can give u bruises_
  * _what’s goin on rite now_



He typed in his replies.

  * _she’s driving to her home_
  * _i tried to tell her that i’d be driving instead because she has a fukn concussion but u know how stubborn she can be_
  * _she’ll be the death of herself i s2g_



Before he could type in more, his device vibrated again. Thrice. His screen flashed three more messages.

  * _Wat. Waaat???_
  * _vee got a concussion????!!!_
  * _HOW BRO HOW. WAT HAPPENED._

* * *

  * _. . . she crashed into the rink fence._
  * _I dunno wat she was thinking, but i think she got distracted. hella distracted_



“Hey, we’re here.” Her voice intruded his ears, bringing him back to reality.

Sneaking a single message of _"talk to u later"_ to his brother, he exhaled a sigh and exited her car at once, not a word leaking from his mouth.

* * *

“Stay here, and don’t do anything stupid,” Nana told him once he had settled himself in the lounge room. “I’m gonna rest.”

He gave her a playful wink. “Sure.”

Sparing him one cautious glance, she ascended to the second floor.

* * *

In spite of the doctor’s advice, she refused to sleep. The moment she dove for the bed, the thin, sleek device was already in her grasp. Accessing the camera app, she took a single selfie, with her still lying on the bed. It wasn’t long until she had it posted on Instagram.

 

**vee-clarke** Currently at home **(-__-) ( >_<)**

**#resting #concussion #ouch #dumbwaystodie #regret**

 

She couldn’t contain her snickers once she saw the onslaught of comments.

 

**call-me-coach-angela** you have a what?!?! what the hell did u do to yourself?? call me asap!

**andreithegreat** so it was true, lol

**nico_d_artagnan** sacre bleu!!! are you okay, mon amie???

**otabek-altin** why are you posting? you should be resting, then.

 

She felt her heart swell with joy when her eyes landed on Otabek’s comment. It delighted her that, in spite of the vast distance between her and her big brother, he still had room to voice his concern for her well-being.

However, joy morphed to surprise when she spotted a certain username in the comments section, one that stood out among the rest

.

**yuri-plisetsky** seriously?? you really are a klutz.

 

She made a face at his mild insult. Why did he call her a klutz all of a sudden? Granted, she didn’t meet him in the most pleasant of ways—but that was purely _his fault_. She tapped away at her keyboard to reply.

 

**vee-clarke @yuri-plisetsky** y u call me a klutz? it was just one accident! one! >:( plus aren’t you supposed to be practicing?

 

His response was instantaneous:

 

**yuri-plisetsky @vee-clarke** currently at break. (-__-)

 

She laughed quietly to herself. Chewing her lip, she typed in:

 

**vee-clarke @yuri-plisetsky** how bout u txt me instead. it’s annoying to have to tag u all the time

 

Soon enough, her conversation with the Russian boy caught various attentions. A French friend of Nana, the one going by the name of “nico_d_artagnan,” tagged Nana’s username with a question. Questions ensued:

 

**nico_d_artagnan @vee-clarke @yuri-plisetsky** wait u two became friends??? when???

**andreithegreat @vee-clarke** “the snow belladonna” and “the russian punk”? friends? this is some eye-opening shit! XDD

 

Brushing off their ridiculous, dramatically exaggerated remarks—and Andrei's use of her title—with a roll of her eyes, she dropped off her phone on the nightstand and let her eyes rest for a moment. What a day. . . .

_Ping!_ And there went her phone.

She rolled to her side and reached for the device. She began to immerse herself in a conversation with Yuri.

  * _how’d you even get a concussion anyway? Did u bump into something again?_

* * *



  * _unfortunately yes, and it’s not a person_

* * *



  * _what did you bump into then?_

* * *



  * _. . . i bumped into the rink fence and hit my head on the ice_

* * *



  * _. . ._
  * _. . . . ._
  * _. . . what the fuck._
  * _HOW COULD U BUMP INTO SOMETHING THAT’S OBVIOUS AND NOT MOVING._

* * *

  * _don’t even ask how, plisetsky. just don’t._

* * *

  * _. . . u really are a klutz_
  * _and that proves it_

* * *

  * _shut it with the klutz thingy already!! I s2g!!_
  * _i ain’t a klutz!_



Then he sent her something. Not a text for sure, for it took up quite a lot of space.

To her disbelief, it was a GIF from _The Brady Bunch_ , of the infamous “Sure Jan” meme. Nana’s face soured. In retaliation, she attached a meme picture of Queen Elizabeth II flipping the bird then pressed the send button.

  * _wait a min isn’t that your queen???_
  * _she flipped the fucking bird?!???_
  * _O_o_



Unable to contain her amusement at his reaction, she slipped out a single cackle, then a dozen, until it became an endless wave of mirthful laughter.

  * _LOOOOOOOOOL!!!_
  * _Gotta luv ur reaction XDDD!_
  * _pretty sure it’s fake tho_

* * *

  * _> :( >:( (-__-)_
  * _Damn u clarke_



“Damn you, too,” Nana giggled to herself, imagining his aggravated expression in her head: his thin, blond brows knit together, his seafoam eyes narrowed into slits, and his lips tightly pressed together. _Like a small, angry kitten. . . ._

She read the next message that had arrived, only for her face to drop in discouragement.

  * _dammit. the geezer wants me back on the rink (e _ e)_
  * _Talk to u later . . . i guess_
  * _Dasvidanya_



And then he was off.

She pouted at the loss of her entertainment. Yuri was, admittedly, a fun person to talk to. His penchant for cursing and his comically “dramatic” reactions never failed to tickle her pink. Deciding that there was nothing to be done about it, she mulled over her other possible choices: eat, surf the social media, or Netflix.

_Why not all?_ her subconscious suggested.

As much as she liked eating, she really didn’t feel like coming out of her room as of the moment. Social media was a no as well, seeing as there was nothing interesting or worth her time there. Netflix? . . . Nope.

_Looks like Fate really wants me to sleep,_ she whined, humorlessly. Laying her phone on the nightstand once more, she made herself comfortable and nestled beneath her fluffy sheets. Moments later, she was out like a log.

* * *

It was four into the afternoon.

Using the spare key Nana had provided him, Yuri was able to gain access to the house at once. Famished and fatigued at the same time, the first things that came to his mind were food and rest. Well, truth be told, those were the _only_ things in his mind at the moment.

His movements were rushed. His feet moved quickly, bringing him to the lounging room in the blink of an eye.. Only for his eyes to be met with an outrageous, eye-opening sight.

Before him was a slumbering male, straggled over the immaculately white sheets of the double bed, atrociously snoring in a volume much louder than a giant’s. Struck with alarm, Yuri impulsively chucked the nearest cushion at the sleeping person. The male jolted awake.

“W-what the—!” he cried out, instantly jerking up to sitting position. His umber mane was disheveled, and he looked lost.

Yuri snarled. “Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing here?!” He looked about ready to pounce on him, like a ferocious feline. How had a stranger acquired entrance to Nana’s residence?

The stranger did not even flinch at his acrid words. Calmly, he rose to his full level, revealing his humongous height.

He towered about a foot over the Russian boy.

Still trapped in a sleepy daze, he stuck out a friendly hand and introduced himself with a yawn. “Anton . . . Vasiliev Ionescu. N-nice to meet y—aaaahhh . . .” His words were lost to another yawn.

The Russian stared at his hand scornfully, as if it were something morbid. Deducing that this “bumpkin” was a waste of his time, he turned away and went for the stairs.

A lethargic, befuddled, bed-headed Anton was left scratching his head. “That was weird. Did . . . did I just talk to the Russian Punk?”

* * *

The Brit was rudely awakened by the persistent ringing of her phone.

Movements lethargic, she tiredly reached for her cell and pressed _Accept_. “What is it?”

_Clarke, who the hell is that moron downstairs?_ the other line shrieked.

Nana rubbed her eyes. “Who?”

_The random moron downstairs! He was sleeping on the double bed!_

“. . . Oh. Just a random moron, then,” she slurred stupidly.

_. . . I forgot you had a concussion. Nevermind._

A forceful huff left her mouth. “That’s because he came with me. I told him, ‘No, you may not come,’ yet he did. What a very stupid, persistent chap!” Unbeknownst to her, she was relaying to him what her sleepy mind was feeding her.

The other line went silent. And then: _I’ll talk to you when your concussion’s gone._

_BEEP!_

* * *

Meanwhile, inside his room, Yuri was seething with annoyance. _I’m surrounded by idiots._

Maybe he’ll just demand answers when she went back to her normal state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol wut even is this chapter?? *eye rolls*
> 
> So yeah, you all got a glimpse of one of Nana's memories. despite being the daughter of a professional ballerina, she's certainly not spared from scornful teasing or comments. in fact, it's even worse because it causes her pressure. at just a young age, she's already pressured to do well in ballet or else she'll "dishonor" her mother and shame herself. (gets mulan flashbacks XDD)
> 
> and as you can also see, i've introduced another character from romania, andrei vasiliev ionescu. he has a twin named andrei aurel ionescu. they are both skaters. (yay another twin skaters!) the brothers are both nana's childhood friends, and otabek's as well. i'll probably explain them in the later chapters.
> 
> and as of yuri and nana's relationship, it's become a vitriolic friendship of some sort (search tvtropes if u don't know what i mean). i want to try a relationship progression because i want to make it bloom . . . sloooowly. (slow burn)
> 
> oh yeah, i got some awesome faceclaims for the characters:
> 
> for nana, she looks like this: https://akimg1.ask.fm/assets/045/947/979/normal/pinkheadband.jpg
> 
> http://www.omlazeni.cz/shared_files/uploaded_new/32/324233/2660522_2_bazar.jpg
> 
> https://68.media.tumblr.com/1afc9d1cc60d2b710d05e12bbf71a02a/tumblr_mf79kzW3I71r2ktgqo1_500.jpg (including the dip-dyed hair).
> 
> the girl on the pic is ellena johnston (which is why there is "ellena" in nana's name, as a shoutout)
> 
> for yuri plisetsky, he looks like this: http://68.media.tumblr.com/a7c6639b21a2c1b5181718b8641a5b94/tumblr_oesftsOEsN1re0wmgo2_540.png
> 
> http://68.media.tumblr.com/0b8e4349dd613068e825daa81ae713e1/tumblr_oesftsOEsN1re0wmgo3_400.jpg
> 
> that's barimor, the best yuri p. cosplayer i've encountered so far! bonus points: he's russian! (and i think i may have a crush on him . . .) y'all need to check out his twitter: @barimor_d
> 
> for anton, he looks like this: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/8f/84/14/8f84140e2ca1611e5a6a3d30cc5e2277.jpg
> 
> for andrei, he looks like this: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/06/37/be/0637be3a09a8439c59eac56b0cb2c025.jpg
> 
> idk those dudes tho XDD but they're romanian dudes.
> 
> anyways, i'll be providing faceclaims for my other ocs to come!


End file.
